


Sometimes I Need....

by Cat2000



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat2000/pseuds/Cat2000
Summary: Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from the television series Prodigal Son and I’m not making any money from this ficSummary: Set after season one episode 12: Internal Affairs. Against all the odds, Dr. Simon Coppenrath did help Bright. Malcolm wants to see if he can continue doing so
Kudos: 10





	Sometimes I Need....

**Author's Note:**

> Warning(s): Spanking; spoilers up to and including season one episode 12; AU; references to violence and murder
> 
> Author’s Note: This is a highly AU scenario – obviously, there wouldn’t be any kind of spanking therapy used by licensed therapists in reality

Malcolm wasn’t a stranger to visiting criminals. Even if his biological dad was taken out of the picture, he’d had occasions where he’d had to interview those who had already been locked up. This was a slightly different situation, though, as Dr. Coppenrath had been able to get a deal, due to the fact he hadn’t killed anyone himself. He might not ever be able to work with the police again, but he’d received a light jail sentence and there was a chance he’d even get out early due to good behaviour. And he could receive visitors.

“Thank you, Officer.” Malcolm smiled at the uniformed guard who’d let him into the jail cell. “I’ll bang on the door when I’m ready to be let out. Or shout, if I need to.” His grin turned a bit more cheeky.

The prison guard just stared at Malcolm, face grim and unsmiling, before turning and walking out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Really, the room could only be called a jail cell in a very loose term. There was a mattress that looked firm and had a comforter placed across it. There was a laptop set up at one corner of the room and a phone next to it. And there was a chair at the desk that Dr. Coppenrath was sitting on. He swiveled round in it and stared at Malcolm. “What are you doing here? Do you need something else from me?”

“For a case? No.” Malcolm felt his hand begin to twitch and quickly grabbed it with his other hand. “I wanted to talk.” He glanced around the cell and then focused back on Dr. Coppenrath. “You look comfortable.”

The other man shook his head and turned away, glancing at the computer screen. “What do you want? Haven’t you damaged my life enough already?”

“I’m sure I could do a lot more.” Malcolm walked over to the mattress and sat down. “This is nice and comfortable. Not sure it would be any good for me, though. There’s a considerable lack of restraints.” He paused and waited.

Dr. Coppenrath turned round, looked at Malcolm and raised his eyebrows. “Are you looking for a therapy session?”

“Yes.” Malcolm smiled and leaned back on the bed, placing his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not quite a couch, but it’ll do.”

“Don’t you already have a therapist?” the other man asked.

“I’ve got so many issues, I can probably do with more than one.” Malcolm glanced at Dr. Coppenrath. “I meant what I said. I know you’re not a killer.”

“I pulled a gun on you.” The other man shook his head in bemusement. “And you’re saying I’m not a killer?”

“You wouldn’t have shot me.” Malcolm made that statement with absolute certainty.

“You can’t be sure of that.” Dr. Coppenrath sighed. “I take it you found Andi?”

“She’s safe. Testifying against Vosler.” Malcolm paused. “I was getting her out. She didn’t need to be taken.”

“You’re deflecting.” The doctor leaned forward slightly, looking into Malcolm’s eyes. “Turning the conversation onto someone else other than you. Anything to hide from your real trauma.” He paused. “You didn’t come to talk about her. Did you?”

“I told you the truth when we were in the precinct together,” Malcolm stated. “About everything that happened to me. About my father. The Surgeon.” He smiled and it had a manic edge to it. “Oddly enough, I felt better talking to you. Just like my actual therapist.”

“If you already _have_ a therapist, what are you doing here?”

“I’m not seeing my dead ten-year-old self anymore,” Malcolm said suddenly. “Figured I got past that particular trauma, but there’s still a lot more.” He rolled over on the bed and looked at the doctor, propping his head up on his hand. “You got any new kind of therapy treatments? I’m open to any new ideas. I’m not seeing myself dead anymore, but I _am_ still seeing things. Or, well, _thing_.”

“And why are you telling _me_ this?” Dr. Coppenrath raised his eyebrows. “You know I could report this. Get you signed off work.”

“You won’t do that. Not unless I’m a danger to myself or others,” Malcolm replied, with certainty.

“You’re not my patient, Malcolm.”

“Not _officially_ ….”

Dr. Coppenrath sighed and shook his head. “You want a new form of therapy? There’s a new one that’s been used among some of my colleagues. _Former_ colleagues,” he corrected himself, with a grimace. “It works because it’s a safe way to let go of some of those negative emotions. It involves some pain, but only as much as the patient can take. But because of the risk of liability, both patient and therapist have to be vetted thoroughly before it’s given the go-ahead.”

“Okay. Then do it to me.”

The doctor laughed, a harsh, bitter sound, and shook his head. “Even if I was willing, you’re hardly a good candidate for this kind of therapy, given the….”

“Given the amount of trauma I’ve gone through?” Malcolm smiled. “I’d say I’m the _perfect_ candidate. At least tell me what the new type of therapy is.”

“Spanking.”

“ _Oh_.” Malcolm thought about that. Then, he nodded. “Makes sense. A lot of trauma comes from events in childhood. And spanking is a punishment primarily used on children, so as long as it’s handled carefully and with the right people….” He nodded and then looked at the doctor. “I agree.”

“You can’t just say the words and expect to….”

“Vetting either of us isn’t going to work,” Malcolm said. “I could try another therapist, but I know you. We have a history together.”

“You got me arrested.”

“Technically, your own actions got you arrested,” Malcolm pointed out. “I just provided the catalyst for the truth to come out. And you can provide the catalyst for my emotions to come out.” He paused and glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I know pain works for me. I slept better than ever when Dani punched me. You must have some idea of how it works. What point to stop at. How much is too much. That kind of thing.”

Dr. Coppenrath sighed and studied Malcolm’s face for a few moments before he said, “This isn’t going to be a one-time thing. Spanking therapy tends to be spread out over several sessions. Particularly in cases carrying as much trauma as you.”

Malcolm nodded. “Got it. So are we doing this?”

“This will be on camera.” The doctor nodded towards the video camera aimed into the cell. “Are you prepared for that?”

“I asked the guards to turn off the cameras.” Malcolm smiled. “They weren’t happy about the request, but didn’t argue with me.”

“Then there’s no point in dragging it out any longer.” The doctor stood up and motioned towards the bed. “Sit up.” When Malcolm did so, he sat down and directed, “You’ll need to remove your pants and underwear. And then bend over my lap.”

Malcolm took a slow, deep breath and then undid his pants and pushed them and his underwear down to just below his knees. Then, he bent forward, settling in place over the doctor’s knees.

If he’d ever been spanked before, Malcolm couldn’t remember. But he doubted it. Neither of his parents had been particularly hands-on with discipline.

The first smack sounded abnormally loud in the cell and Malcolm winced as Dr. Coppenrath’s hand landed firmly on his right buttock. A matching swat was delivered to the opposite cheek and Malcolm gasped, fingers flexing in the comforter. Then, as the doctor continued with the steady, solid smacks, working over every inch of Malcolm’s bottom, he clenched his fingers tightly in the comforter.

The sting built rapidly, morphing into a burn as the doctor began to smack skin he’d already covered once. Malcolm’s breath came out in a short, sharp gasp and he began to squirm in place over the doctor’s lap.

The spanking continued; relentless, firm smacks landing in a methodical pattern all over Malcolm’s backside. Three circuits in and then he was delivering harder and faster smacks, focusing more to the sit spots and thighs and those _hurt_.

Malcolm’s whole bottom and thighs burned, but the first tears that trickled down his cheeks caught him by surprise. The pain wasn’t even that severe, given everything he’d gone through. But something about being bent over, having his backside methodically warmed, knowing that it was supposed to help him, that brought the tears out.

A few more smacks landed to Malcolm’s thighs and he wriggled and squirmed a bit more before a choking sob was torn from his throat. He slumped over the doctor’s knees, fingers reflexively tightening on the comforter and then releasing it as his body decided it wasn’t going to fight the spanking any longer.

As soon as he’d relaxed and accepted the punishment, the spanking stopped. Dr. Coppenrath patted his lower back and said, softly, “As soon as you’re ready, you can get up.”

It was surprisingly comfortable, or maybe comfort _ing_ , to be over the doctor’s lap, despite his stinging backside. Malcolm allowed himself to stay in place for a few moments and then carefully pushed himself up. He tugged his clothing back into place and then grinned at the doctor. “So is this a weekly thing, then?”

“Get a journal,” Dr. Coppenrath directed. “Write down in it how you feel right now and how you feel every day for the next week. Then, when you come back this time next week, we’ll go through the journal and discuss the next step.”

“Got it!” Malcolm grinned, gave his bottom a quick rub and headed to the cell door. He knocked on it and called out, “I’m ready to come out.”

** The End **


End file.
